


MYEYNL Extras: Eggs and Stallions

by aimmyarrowshigh



Series: May You Enjoy Your New Life [5]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Babies, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Family Fluff, Father's Day, M/M, Outtakes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-24
Updated: 2013-07-24
Packaged: 2017-12-21 05:16:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/896229
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aimmyarrowshigh/pseuds/aimmyarrowshigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>TIMESTAMP FOR <a href="http://higherarrowsfic.livejournal.com/1011.html">May You Enjoy Your New Life</a>. Takes place in the June following the final chapter, when Millie is five years old.  <i>“Well, it’s a good thing then that next weekend is Muppie’s Day, isn’t it?”</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>***</p>
</div><b>REQUEST A MYEYNL EXTRA!</b> <a href="http://aimmyarrowshigh.tumblr.com/submit">Submit a MYEYNL-esque photo on my Tumblr (no text prompts)</a> and I will write you a MYEYNL outtake, timestamp, or scene coda.  They may be short (but at least 100 words) or long, depending on how much time and inspiration I have.
            </blockquote>





	MYEYNL Extras: Eggs and Stallions

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ladzfm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladzfm/gifts).



> **Warnings** : Some references to off-screen sexual activity.  
>  **Disclaimer** : I don't own anything. No claim of knowledge or veracity is made towards anyone in the story and no aspersions or claims of character are to be inferred. I have no connection nor permissions from One Direction, X-Factor, Simon Cowell, SyCo Inc., Sony, ITV, or Columbia Records. No libel intended.  
>  **Notes** : Requested as an outtake by **ladzfm**. Request a Milliefic outtake by [submitting a picture to my Tumblr](http://aimmyarrowshigh.tumblr.com/submit).

Millie flies down the Glendower Prep steps, heavy rucksack bumping behind her, and barely pauses before sailing across the grounds and into Louis’ waiting arms.

“It’s a Muppie day!” she sings, squeezing him. “I did ‘membered all day, and I sure am glad!”

“Are you?” Louis asks. “Because it’s the last day of school for the year?”

“For the _two_ years, for me,” Millie points out. “We’re going to touring. I have my list of zoos all ready to go.”

“That’s very prepared,” Louis chuckles. “But we’re not leaving for another month. August, remember?”

Millie sighs and hitches her legs around Louis’ ribs when he lifts her up to carry her amiably down to the car. “I know. Because Martha and Archie are still too small.”

“Right,” Louis agrees. “And we need to find a good baby-sitter for Reggie and Poopie and Bertram, because Poopie and Dusty hate each other.”

“And Reggie is scared of Dusty!” Millie giggles. “And cows. But that’s is not why I am being glad it’s a Muppie day.”

“It isn’t?” Louis settles her into her carseat and kisses her forehead. “Why are you so glad, then?”

He gets into the driver’s seat and dutifully listens to Millie’s admonishments to _buckle up for safety!_. She’s passed her first year of real schooling with flying colors—although she’d had some trouble learning motor skills with her scissors and Harry’s hair had taken a beating as his sacrifice to help her learn—and Louis loved acting and co-hosting Xtra, but he’s excited, too, for her year to be over so One Direction can get back on the road. They’re better, he thinks, when they’re all together.

“I am _glad_ ,” Millie says, “For two reasons, mostly. One is, can we get waffles and sparkles? Daddy never lets me, almost. And two is, I need your help on a secret.”

“On a secret?” Louis asks. “And yes, we can get waffles, but you have to eat all of your broccoli at dinner.”

“But I hate broccolis!”

“I know,” Louis says primly. “But they’re healthy.” Millie sighs hugely and Louis can hear her feet in her little Mary-Janes stomping at the back of the passenger seat. “ _Hey_. No kicking, missus, or no waffles.”

Millie stops kicking. When Louis glances in the rearview mirror, she’s quietly chewing on two fingers and staring back at him. She grins around her knuckles, two missing teeth in full display on the side of her mouth. 

“What’s your secret?” Louis asks. “Remember, if it will hurt someone, it isn’t a secret.”

“I know,” Millie says. “That’s why this _is_ a _seeecret_. It’s for making my daddy happy.”

“Oh, well, then I’m all for that,” Louis says. “Did you make something for Father’s Day at school?”

“I maked a card,” Millie affirms. “And we learnt to make omelets.”

“And that’s what you need my help with,” Louis guesses.

Millie nods vigorously as Louis pulls into the parking lot adjacent the waffle shop. “I can’t bakin. I mean, cook. I can break the eggs and stir, but I cannot use knifes or stoveses without a adult. For safety.”

“Right,” Louis says. “Well. I suppose I can help you. I’ve no idea how to fold an omelet, though.”

Millie fixes her rumpled skirt and clutches onto Louis’ hand with her damp fingers before looking up at him plaintively. “In half.”

Louis laughs, pushing open the door to the waffle shop, and lets Millie lead him handily inside to the counter. “Of course! In half! How could I not know that?”

He pops Millie up onto his hip so she can point out the toppings that she wants on her waffle (white fudge, whipped cream, coconut flakes, and powdered sugar). Millie finishes ordering, then pats Louis’ cheek consolingly. “It is okay, mine Muppie. We can have three weeks to practice omelets.”

***

On the third Thursday in June, Louis wakes with the sun and with little-kid breath puffing in his face from the side of the bed.

“Is it time?” he whispers, bleary and crackle-voiced. He’d given Harry his own ‘Father’s Day present’ buried in the dark only a few hours before. 

Millie nods excitedly, her eyes catching the light peeping through the slats of their blinds. Louis can just barely hear the clicking of their cat’s toenails on the floor just outside the door as she stalks, waiting for Louis to leave the bed so she can nip up into the warm spot left behind next to her object of affection, Harry. “For the omelet!”

“Right,” Louis murmurs. “Scoot so I can get out of bed.”

Millie takes him at his word and scoot-scoot-scoots backwards across the floor until she can open the door. As soon as the wood creaks, Pooper-Scooper streaks like silent lightning across the wood and hops onto the comforter, light cat feet gently balance-stepping their way up Harry’s legs to settle on the curve of his back.

“Homewrecker,” Louis whispers at the cat. Pooper-Scooper just stares at him blithely, yellow eyes unblinking in the dark, as her tail swishes graffiti onto Harry’s arm. Louis steps out of bed and stretches, arms up high and then down to touch the floor. He steps into the big, silly moose slippers he keeps beside the bed before yawning as he trods over to Millie and opens the door the rest of the way so he can follow her out. He pats the back of her curly head. “Let’s go.”

Millie skips to the kitchen, her feet thudding hard against the wooden floor.

“Shhh, little bean,” Louis murmurs. “If you wake up your dad, it’ll ruin the surprise.”

“Oh!” Millie starts to tiptoe. “You are right. Did you buy all the things?”

“We did together, remember?” Louis asks, disentangling a snarl in her curls. “On Monday, with Lux and Auntie Lou?”

“Oh, that’s right,” Millie says. She pauses in the corridor to stretch, mimicking Louis in her zip-up onesie emblazoned with red turtles. “And we teached them omelets.”

“Right,” Louis agrees. “Taught, though. We taught them omelets.”

They hadn’t, really, but Millie had taken great delight in showing off her newly acquired scissor skills by teaching Lux to cut the scallions down into tiny circled shreds. Lou had helped the girls to shred their cheddar cheese carefully, without any bits of little fingers, and then she’d turned to Louis at the stove: a sorry sight.

He thinks—thinks—he has it now, and it will be nice to be able to cook something besides his usual fried egg breakfast sandwich for Harry as a surprise. Mainly, though, it’s nice that Millie is so excited about celebrating Father’s Day. Harry deserves it, Louis thinks. He’s the best father that Louis has ever seen, not that Louis had any particularly wonderful models in his own life. But neither had Harry, and Harry has taken to it like a duck to water or an egg to butter or Millie to lizards.

He switches on the light in the kitchen and both Millie and Louis blink in the sudden yellow light. It wakes Reginald in her nighttime pen, and there’s a rustle of her fluffy fur as she immediately pounces up onto her back legs to check out what’s going on.

“Can I let her out?” Millie asks, pulling at Louis’ trouser-leg at the knee.

“Sure,” Louis agrees. “But please don’t get her all excited. We don’t want to wake up your dad.”

Millie undoes the latch on the gate to let Reginald come bounding out and bowl Millie over with licks to her face. They’ve been attending obedience school, but to little avail. Millie is far too likely to ply the various pets in their menagerie (they’ve acquired a cockatiel called Chocolate Doodle and a pigeon that crashed into the window and has since been tenderly nursed back to full health by Harry and Millie over the spring, still nameless) with treats to care what an obedience trainer has to say. While she’s preoccupied with the dog, Louis smiles, softly, and heads to the refrigerator to take out all of the ingredients that he and Millie have painstakingly memorized over the last near-month: eggs, knob of butter, no milk and no cold water; scallions, mushroom, no bacon because Millie won’t touch it. 

“Bean,” Louis urges softly once the pan has begun to season over heat, “Come wash your hands.”

It’s second nature to turn the faucet a shade cooler for Millie’s small hands as Louis holds her up high enough to reach the kitchen sink and makes sure that she scrubs up with the soap, rather than let it pool like albumen through her fingers into a pink puddle at the bottom of the sink. 

Louis kisses Millie on the jiggly apple of her cheek before he lets her down. “Can you show me where the food scissors are?”

Millie trots over to the set of drawers and picks out the set of scissors as long as her arm. After setting Millie up with a cutting board at her place (with a booster seat) on one side of the kitchen table, he sets about cracking eggs into a big bowl to let them temper with salt and black pepper until they’re room temperature, nearly warm, before he whisks the whites and yolks together into one smooth yellow mass. Millie’s tongue pokes out through her teeth as she snips the scallion into thin shreds and the mushrooms into jagged cubes.

“I don’t like mushrooms,” she comments.

“Yes, you do,” says Louis, because Harry desperately wants her to eat them after begging for them to be bought week after week. 

“Oh!” Millie says. “I do like mushrooms. I forgot.”

“That’s right,” Louis agrees, quietly glad that he doesn’t need to eat them. He starts up a second pan to heat through the omelet filling, a sprinkle of herb blend in the pan to toast. “Are you almost ready?”

Millie nods and gives another mushroom cap an artful snip. “I am ready. Can I pour and stirbakin now?”

“Yes, Bean, come on up.” Louis pats his hip and Millie scrambles up his leg, holding the teetering bowl of veg. Louis adds a dollop of butter to the small pan and Millie dumps in the vegetables so they sizzle straight away. Louis moves her over to sit on the countertop with a wooden spoon in her hand and a soft admonishment to _be careful, little bean_ , and then locks eyes with her. Her green eyes gleam in excitement. “You think it’s time?”

Millie gives him a thumbs’ up. A small piece of mushroom goes flying out of her pan and onto the floor, and Reginald gobbles it. “You can do it, Muppie!”

Louis kisses Millie’s forehead and then, carefully, slides the egg mixture into hot, tempered pan, butter melted to a slick, pale shine across its black surface. It whispers softly, and Louis and Millie both hold their breath as the egg covers the flat of the pan in a solid, sunny-yellow circle.

“Do it, Muppie!” Millie cheers, her own spoon forgotten as she chugs her chubby arms and waits for Louis to give the omelet a hard flip.

(Twice, he’d gotten egg all over the Teasdale-Atkins’ kitchen floor, and once, Reginald and Poopie had a glorious afternoon treat.)

But this time, as the sun rises pink over the rooftops through their window, the egg stays where it should, an undulating flag of billowing yellow, thickening but not browning, not a spot.

When it’s a solid circle, Louis pours it half onto a plate. “Okay, little bean, quick!”

Millie hands him the spoon and he urges the filling out of its pan and onto the egg; Millie quickly aligns it down the center of the circle with one small fork. _Hot, hot, hot_ , Louis chants under his breath as he uses his fingers to fold the omelet in thirds around the mushroom and scallion, having given up trying to learn to do it properly with the pan.

“Orange juice!” Millie hollers, then shushes when Louis chastises quietly again. “And a banana!”

“Yep, orange juice and a banana,” Louis agrees, taking the carton from her as she rummages in the refrigerator. Millie emerges triumphant, staggering a little on her turned-in feet, under the weight of the huge four-liter orange juice that Harry goes through every week. Louis chuckles at her huffing and puffing, then relieves her of the juice, bending to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Good girl.”

“I am good,” Millie agrees. She sloughs a kiss to the back of Louis’ wrist, just over where he’s acquired a tattoo of a flock of birds. She pokes each bird individually, naming out Louis’ sisters for the birds that represent them, and then beams up at him around her jagged jack-o’-lantern lost teeth. “Banana?”

Louis plucks a banana out of the basket on the countertop and hands it to Millie. She arranges it on the tray she’d decoupaged weeks ago back in her art class, then looks dubiously up at Louis. “Muppie, why not can I carry the glass and the omelet?”

“Because the tray is heavy,” Louis reminds her. “And Poopie and Reggie get excited when there’s food around, and I don’t want them to break everything when they knock you down.”

“They will not knock me down,” Millie argues. “I will tell them no.”

“You can try,” Louis says. “All the same, I’m going to hold the plate and the glass until we get into your daddy’s room, okay?”

Millie sighs dramatically and rolls her eyes so hard Louis warns her they’ll be stuck that way. She pulls a terrible face instead and they play monsters at each other for a few minutes, growling and griffing until Reginald joins in with a plaintive whimper and big soppy eyes gazing at the omelet growing cold on its plate.

“Alright, little bean,” Louis says. “Let’s go. Your dad’s slept enough.”

Millie’s feet patter across the floor as she and Louis make their way back to Harry’s bedroom. Louis shoulders the door open, since they both have full hands, and then there’s a scuffle of whispers as Millie holds the tray tightly so Louis can rest the plate of eggs and the glass of orange juice atop it. 

Louis chucks Millie’s cheek with one knuckle, fondly. “D’you want to wake him or shall I?”

“Daddy!” Millie hollers, right in Louis’ face. “Wake up time!”

Harry snorts and snorfles once, pressing his face into the pillow. His back cracks as he rolls over; his hair is choppy and uneven when it flops over his forehead, and has been ever since Millie came home with tear tracks on her cheeks and announced that she needed to learn a zig-zag cut. When he pushes himself up to sitting, there’s a crease across his cheek from a fold in the pillowcase. Pooper-Scooper yowls at the disturbance in the blankets and Harry winces as claws prickle into his back when she crawls over him like a rappeller. He catches Poopie around her saggy cat belly and pulls her into his lap with a cluck and a soothing pet down her back. She purrs under Harry’s hands and settles, tail swishing in content.

“Good morning, little bean,” Harry says. His face brightens incandescent as he takes in what day it is, and why Millie is standing in front of his bed with a messy decoupaged tray of food. “Is that for me?”

“It is for you,” Millie confirms. “Because it is Father’s Day.”

“Thank you so much,” Harry says, and he sounds a little weepy and awed. “Do you need help getting that up here?”

“Muppie can help me,” Millie says with a nod, and Louis holds the tray for her until she’s heaved herself up onto their tall bed. Harry is kissing her face all over when Louis slides the tray so that it covers both of their laps.

“What’s all this?” Harry asks Millie, putting an arm around her shoulders. Millie immediately cuddles into his side, small and warm against his ribs, and sticks two fingers in her mouth to play with the empty spaces her baby teeth left behind as she tells him about learning to make omelets at school, and that there’s a card for him somewhere in her knapsack. Louis smiles gently at the both of them, their dark curly heads bent together as Harry cuts the omelet in two to share with his baby, and swallows around the kernel of emotion caught in his throat.

“Come on,” he whispers to Reggie, nudging her with his foot. Just before the door closes, Pooper-Scooper streaks through it and twines herself around Louis’ legs, only friendly with him when she can sense that he’s about to fill the feed bowls. “I’ll feed you in the kitchen, you mutt. Let’s let them be.”

***

The omelet is under-seasoned and the filling a little raw in the middle, but since it’s only vegetables and Harry doesn’t need more salt, anyway, it’s the best thing Harry’s ever eaten. Millie giggles happily around her messy mouthfuls of food as she tells him about the secret shopping trips and cooking adventures at the Teasdale-Atkins’ with Muppie and Auntie Lou.

Harry kisses the side of her head again. “Where is your Muppie now? Where’s his omelet? Did you make him a card?”

“No,” Millie says. “He is not my daddy, and it’s is Father’s Day.”

Harry’s heart sinks in his chest, and it’s a cold letdown from the enamored warmth he’s had since he woke up. “Oh, Millie. We have to make your muppie a card, at least.”

“But it’s is Father’s Day,” Millie insists. Her eyes are round. “You are my daddy.”

“Right,” Harry says softly. He taps an absent melody with his fingertips on the back of Millie’s little hand. “Well, it’s a good thing then that next weekend is Muppie’s Day, isn’t it?”

“It is?” Millie asks, astonished. “I not did make anything in school! I am so behind! Oh, no! We need to get a tray, and a scissors, but not food scissors, and I need magazines and flowers and glitter glue and consternation paper and crayons and eggs and stallions and mushrooms and bacon, because Muppie says it’s how he keeps his figure, but you have to touch the bacon, and—”

Harry laughs under his breath and presses a smacking kiss to the side of her head. “Don’t get in a tizzy, miss Lizzie, we have time.”

“Don’t call me Lizzie,” Millie says, crossing her arms. “I picked my name, and it’s is Bee or Millie.”

“Okay,” Harry says gamely. “Don’t get silly, miss Millie. We have time. Let’s do something different for your Muppie’s Day. What would make him happy, do you think?”

“He likes bacon,” Millie says. “And football. And he likes Yoursheer tea, and me, and you. And he likes Martha and Archie! We could borrow Martha and Archie!”

“No,” Harry says, “I don’t think we’ll borrow someone else’s babies to celebrate Muppie’s Day.”

“Okay. He likes surfing!”

“I don’t think we can go surfing,” Harry says apologetically. “We’re in England. But… what if we have a picnic in the park and we’ll play football with him?”

“I hate football,” Millie groans, flopping against Harry’s side. “It’s so hard.”

“I know,” Harry agrees, sympathetically. “But you know what? Cooking is hard for Muppie, and you and him learnt that for me. So this week, me and you will try to learn football.”

“Ugh!” Millie grunts. A piece of mushroom falls out of her mouth through a gap in her teeth and lands on her pudgy belly. “It’s is a good thing I love my muppie so much.”

Harry chuckles and plucks the piece of mushroom off her belly and back onto her plate. He ruffles her hair after and tugs lightly at her earlobe. “Yeah, it is. Did you thank him for cooking with you?”

“No,” Millie admits. “But he maked me thanked Auntie Lou. And Auntie Lou did maked Lux thank me for teaching her scissors.”

“Oh, did you?” Harry asks. “You feel so confident now that you’re a scissors tutor?”

“Yes,” Millie says. She reaches up and fluffs at his fringe. “I like your hairs like this. It’s is like a sheep. You are very soft.”

“Thank you,” Harry laughs. “But you’re never cutting my hair again. If you do, Auntie Lou’ll be out of a job.”

Millie heaves a sigh that sends her collapsing down against the pillows, hand at her brow like a Victorian lady in need of smelling salts. Harry takes advantage of her swoon so that he can finish his plate of breakfast before it congeals cold on the plate, and drains his glass of orange juice. 

He tickles her belly. “Ready to go find your Mup? What else are we doing for Father’s Day?”

Millie sits up, giggling and shoving at his hand, and then frowns. She shrugs. “I not do know. I only knowed—knew—known breakfast. Also, I am still hungry.”

“Well,” Harry says, “You did only have a little eggs. What do you want to eat?”

“Butter chicken,” Millie reports. “And pain au chocolate. And Yoursheer tea.”

“No tea,” Harry says automatically. He goggles at her a bit and shakes his head. “And you can’t have butter chicken for breakfast, and we don’t have pain au chocolat. Honestly, where do you get these things?”

“On telly.” Millie crawls under the breakfast tray and wriggles her way off the bed. “Why do you ask me what I want to eat if that’s is never what you want to give me?”

Harry barks a seal-laugh and moves the tray out of the way so he can climb out of bed behind her. He pauses as he moves it, and a tingly-warm grin flutters through his chest as he looks at the way she’s decorated it—all glitter glue smiley faces and careful placements of dried flowers over painstakingly cut out and overlapping pictures from magazines, a basic decoupage. But pictures of him. Him and Louis. Him and Millie. Their family. She must be the only kid in the world who can do that.

“Hey, bean,” Harry murmurs, after he’s shrugged into an oversize jumper and his slippers, “Can I have a Father’s Day hug?”

Millie turns and runs full-force into his arms without any preamble. If she weighed more than a fairly small sack of groceries, Harry would be bowled right over, but as it is, he just snatches her up and holds her close, face pressed into her curls so he can kiss the top of her precious little head. She’s getting so big, even if she’s still tiny and fragile and small. It’s amazing, looking at her now, able to cook and use scissors and run and play football and use glitter glue and throw tautologies in his face about breakfast foods, that she was ever as tiny as she’d been when she was born, ever as tiny as she’d been when he would kneel at Clare’s side and talk to Millie through her stomach. 

Millie tilts her face up and kisses the underside of Harry’s jaw where he’s scratchy from the morning. “I love you, Daddy.”

“I love you, too, little bean,” Harry murmurs, giving her a squeeze. “Now remember, Muppie’s Day is a surprise, so don’t tell him.”

Millie nods, and Harry flips her around to his back in a swing dancing move that makes her shriek and clutch on for her piggyback to the kitchen. “I not will tell.”

“Good,” he says. “So when Muppie goes to work, we’ll try football in the garden, okay? Now let’s go feed you. I’ll see if we have some Nutella for your toast, okay? And we can get butter chicken for lunch.”

“Yay!” Millie cheers, holding on for dear life as Harry gallops down the corridor. 

All day, it’s clear that Louis has worked his hardest to make sure that Father’s Day is lovely not only for Harry, but for Millie, as well. There’s a trip to the zoo after breakfast, with Lux and Lou and Tom tagging along, and as promised, Millie gets her butter chicken for lunch. While Millie naps off her Indian food coma, Harry and Louis retreat to their big bed for a not-quite-so-quickie. They swim in the afternoon, and Louis disappears with Millie to give Harry time alone for just long enough that they can “prepare Harry’s special dinner,” arriving home with silly grins and an extra-large pizza with chicken and sweet corn. All day, except while napping, Millie bounces with excitement and hangs all over Harry, verifying every few minutes that he is having a good Father’s Day. And all day, just beside them, Louis is soft and warm and supportive and wonderful and Harry feels so, so determined to give him the perfect day of his own. He deserves that. He deserves everything.

The next day, though, as Harry and Millie both lie on their lawn, panting and fairly bruised, Reggie nosing at the football between them, Harry muses that maybe Muppie’s Day would go better if the one who actually knew football were to be the football tutor.

He turns his head, blows some fringe out of his eyes, and says, “Alright, little bean. Ready to get up and try to pass again?”

Millie flops over onto her belly and hides her face in her arms. “No.”

“Come on, bean,” Harry groans, pushing himself up. He rubs her back gently. “I know you can do it.”

“I not can,” Millie insists into her arms. “My feets don’t like it.”

“Sure they do,” Harry lies. He tickles the back of her knee so she kicks. “Come on, get uppy. We’re gonna try again so you can play football with Muppie on his day, right?”

Millie sighs and stays flopped. “Pick me up.”

Harry scoops her under one arm and lifts her up, tossing her once before he sets her on her wall-eyed feet. There are grass stains on both of her knees and one elbow, and her hair bow is falling askew across one eye.

She pouts up at him. “Why cannot Muppie like dancing? I like dancing.”

Harry smiles gently at her and kneels down to re-clip her hair. He kisses her nose. “He likes dancing with you! But that’s your favorite thing. Mup’s favorite thing is football, and we’re going to try. Don’t you think that will be nice?”

“I guess.” Millie heaves an almighty sigh. “But I not do want to play _all_ the time. Only on special occasionals.”

 

“Okay.” Harry pats her cheek. He stands, knees popping, and shoos Reginald away from their ball. Harry picks it up and tosses it from hand to hand once as he checks it over for any special presents from their puppy before he sets it down at his feet and dribbles it twice, nearly losing track of it himself. “Ready, bean? I’m going to pass it to you.”

Millie hunkers down like a goalie. “Ready.”

“Okay. Remember, if it’s not coming right to you, run a bit and try to get it.”

“Do I have to?”

“Yes.” Harry trips over his own foot and kicks the ball to cover it; it sails over Millie’s head and back to the edge of the yard. Reginald barks excitedly and tears off after it. “Go on, little bean! You have to beat Reggie!”

Millie looks from the end of the yard back to Harry. Reginald is already nearly at the fence. “No.”

Harry exhales and trudges over to take the ball from Reginald. He wipes slobber and grass on his jeans as he comes back to Millie and kneels in front of her again. “Now, bean, you have to run a bit when you play football, okay? So this time, if the ball is coming to you but not _right_ to you, just run until you catch up to it, okay?”

Millie hesitates, biting her lip, before she nods. “Okay. Pass it to me again.”

“Okay.” Harry kisses her forehead and backs up to his starting position. This time, he doesn’t trip, but the ball still arcs away from Millie, skittering across the top of the grass to land somewhere to her left. “Go get it, Millie!”

Millie runs pell-mell towards the ball and then stops stock still, considering it. She glances at Harry. “I kick it now?”

“Yeah, bean, give it a kick.”

Millie growls, hands in fists, and kicks.

“I missed it!”

“Yeah, bean, I saw,” Harry says, praying to every deity he knows that she can’t tell how hard it is to hold in his laughter. “Try it again.”

Millie roars like one of her beloved dragons as she kicks, wheeling, and her toes connect with the ball just enough that it rolls about half a meter and she goes flailing onto her rump with an _oof_.

“Uh-oh!” Harry jogs over and crouches down next to her. There are glossy tears shining in her big green eyes. “Are you okay?”

“No,” Millie insists, crossing her arms. “Football is stupid and I hurted myself.”

“I know,” Harry simpers. “Do you want to be done for today?”

“I want to be done forever.”

“Well,” Harry picks her up and carries her on his hip like when she was smaller. “We’ll see how you feel tomorrow, alright?”

“I will feel like this,” Millie grumbles. “I never do change.”

“Sure you do.” Harry opens their screen door and steps into the kitchen. He toes out of his sneakers and clucks until Reginald trots indoors, shaking out her fur with the same aplomb as Harry and Millie do their hair. “You change every day, to me.”

“How does I change?”

Harry sets Millie down on the countertop and wets a paper towel to start cleaning up her knees. “You get bigger and smarter and you learn new things and teach me things. You started out the size of a peanut.”

“Or a little bean!” Millie giggles winsomely.

“Or a little bean,” Harry agrees. “And you used to stick your fingers up Muppie’s nose whenever you saw him, and I bet you wouldn’t do that now.”

“Ew!” Millie makes a face. “I would not never.”

“You’d not never what?” The bowl by the door jangles as Louis steps into the kitchen, and Millie looks up at Harry with round eyes. She holds a finger to her lips to _shhh_ him. Louis looks between them with an eyebrow raised. “What happened to you? You look as though you’ve been through a war against the plants.”

“We were outside,” Harry says.

“We were outside,” Millie chirps, nodding.

“I can see that,” says Louis. He comes over and kisses the side of Millie’s head, then touches one of the green stains on her knee tenderly. “Did you fall?”

Millie nods, her eyes huge. “A lot of times.” She hesitates, then glances at Harry. “There was an earthquake.”

“An earthquake?” Louis asks, chuckling. He kisses her knee. “That sounds very serious. I wonder how I missed it.”

“It was only at our house,” Millie says. “We was outside and there was an earthquake and the ground shaked and the trees shaked and I fell down. And I then I stood up and there was more earthquake and I fell down again.”

“Wow,” Louis says. “And to think, it didn’t make that football out in our garden roll away.”

Millie shows all of her gappy teeth in a baboon grimace and looks up at Harry for what to do. Harry takes one look at her, green staining her elbows and knees and one of her cheeks, a sunburn down her nose, half of her visible teeth out of place, and a leaf poking out of her hair, and laughs, despairing. “Go on and tell him, bean.”

“We was playing football,” Millie says sadly, looking up at Louis. “For to learn. For Muppie’s Day.”

“Muppie’s Day?” Louis looks bewildered. “What’s Muppie’s Day?”

“It’s like Father’s Day,” Millie says, clutching tight around Louis’ neck as he lifts her off the counter to let her cuddle. “But for mups.”

There’s a moment of suspended, warm silence as Louis swallows, kisses Millie’s ear, and repeats. With the arm not holding Millie, he reaches out until he finds Harry’s hand, then twines their fingers, squeezing twice to make sure Harry’s really there. “I see. Well, you don’t have to play football just for me.”

“But it’s is your favorite,” Millie says into Louis’ neck. “You should get your favorite on your own day.”

Louis kisses her face again. “But I don’t want you to be miserable just for me. Since you’re the onliest girl with a mup, it’s your day, too.”

Millie perks up. She beams at him. “That’s is true.”

“I thought you’d think so.” He lets go of Harry’s hand and gives him a soft smile before he tosses Millie into the air and catches her, dipping low. “So what do you say, we give up on the football for another year and we’ll plan a Muppie’s Day we can all enjoy?”

“That’s is better,” Millie agrees, imperious with her nod. “I think it is always much better when I am having fun.”

“That’s true,” Louis agrees. He chucks Millie up and down on his hip again. “Come on, li’l bean. Let’s go get you cleaned up.”

“Do you know what is fun?” Harry over hears her say as they disappear around the corner. “Going to the zoo to see my dragons.”

Harry chuckles under his breath, then groans when his back twinges, unhappy with how many times he tripped over the ball or the dog or his daughter over the course of the day. He phones in an order for Thai takeaway, too exhausted to think of cooking, and sets the kettle on to make tea and sulk a bit at his lack of football prowess. 

After Millie is clean and fluffy, her knees lovingly taped with Pingu plasters, Harry takes a long shower under very hot water. When he wanders back out of the bathroom, hair wrapped in one flannel and his pyjama trousers on, he finds Millie sitting in Louis’ lap in the kitchen. Louis has a big mug of dark black Yorkshire tea in hand, and Millie’s chubby fingers are wrapped around her own small Rango teacup full of milky tea, and Harry is about to step in and admonish them both _no tea_ when he hears them—

“But I just wanted your Muppie’s Day to be as good as my daddy’s Father’s Day, but I didn’t make nothing in school and I don’t have a tray or stallions or a card or my daddy doesn’t know how to make an omelet.”

“Your dad is a good cook,” Louis murmurs, and rests his chin on the top of Millie’s head. “I bet he can make an omelet.”

“But I didn’t make you a tray.”

“That’s okay,” Louis says. “I’m too messy to eat in bed. Didn’t you see me spill egg on my shirt this morning?”

Millie giggles. “It was funny. You tried to hide with your napkin, but I seen it.”

“I know you did,” Louis says, and tickles under Millie’s chin to make her shriek and squirm happily. “So I don’t need a tray. And you have plenty of time to make me a card if you really want.”

“I not do have any consternation paper,” Millie says, sounding sad. “Only white paper.”

“You can draw me a picture on it,” Louis suggests. “That’s all I need.”

“But I drawed you pictures all the time.” Millie sighs, sounding defeated. “I want it to be special.”

“It’s always special when you draw me a picture,” Louis says. He tucks his nose into the flyaway curls at the back of her head and gives her a kiss. “As far as I’m concerned, little bean, every day with you and your dad is Muppie’s Day.”

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